


It's a Long Way Down

by thewinterspy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Torture, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterspy/pseuds/thewinterspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets on the plane to Eastern Europe, and Molly follows, not anticipating that they might not return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ottersandhedgehogs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottersandhedgehogs/gifts).



> This is turning out way longer than I expected, so I decided to split it up. This is for my dearest friend Milly, who only gave a small prompt, that I took and made into some uncontrollable monster. Happy belated birthday, hun.

_The warehouse drips and creaks and groans around her as she runs, her feet hazardously landing in puddles. She's a romantic, and she would have assumed she'd have nothing else to think of but escape._

_That's the way the movies tell it. But she thinks about how in the movies, things always seem the worst, but it gets better. There's always a happy ending. There has to be._

_Bullets ring through the air behind her, and she yelps, dipping behind a tank. Tears build behind her eyes, and she shudders out a breath that comes out as a sob._

_She should think of an escape._

_She thinks that she's going to die alone._

 

* * *

  

Winter in Bucharest chills her, even in the coat Mr. Holmes' assistant had been kind enough to give her. She was acting as a high class business woman, taking luxury in faux furs and thin stockings. She doesn't feel the way she supposes she ought to. These kind of people are confident. These kind of people are pretty.

 

She needs to pretend to be that kind of person. Not the small specialist registrar with the pretty jumpers everyone else eyes distastefully. Not the girl that didn't go to any of her school discos because no one asked her.

 

Mr. Holmes has people waiting for her at the airport. There's an old man with a wide smile of missing teeth, with a sign that reads CRAWFORD. That's her - or at least, that's fake her. He's her driver, he tells her with a heavy accent, and offers to take her bags. She lets him, and he escorts her to a car waiting outside. They drive through the Romanian city, while the driver makes a commentary on each sight of importance. As far as she can tell, he doesn't know her true identity. If he did, wouldn't he make himself known and talk to her in the car, where no one listens?

 

She feels suddenly very dirty, with all these secrets woven into her skin. She used to be the one everyone thought was so pure.

 

Apparently the hotel she's staying at is a notable piece of architecture. She smiles thinly and tells the driver that she thinks the building's lovely, which she's genuine about. The city can be compared to little, even with her patriotism giving her a bias to London. Her smile is hard to manage under the stress of her visit. What a beautiful, beautiful man to not know the danger she's in with this visit.

 

He helps her out of the car with a slight tremor in his hands, and he gets her luggage for her. Most of it, she won't even use.

 

She's never been treated by staff the way she is when she walks in with her fur coat and her hair all done up in curls. There's a bellhop rushing to hold the door for her, and another one going to help her driver with the bags. He shakes his head at them, speaking to them in what must be Romanian. The woman at the front desk smiles and helps her understand the muddle that is her reservation.

 

She's not acting the way she's supposed to, she's sure, but she keeps her posture straight. That ought to count for something. She remembers being little and standing in the middle of the living room with her Mum after watching the queen on the telly. She'd asked her Mummy to help her with her curtsies, for if she ever met Her Royal Highness. She never has, but a little girl get so excited about a crown. Being that important. Never knowing how to slump.

 

The driver walks her all the way to the elevator, up to her floor. Even with his arms full, he holds the room door open for her.  The room is lovely, and she makes note of it out loud. Her voice is loud in awe. With a smile that crinkles his eyes, the driver doesn't speak, and hands her a piece of paper. Baffled, she takes it and reads it. Her blood goes cold as she looks back up at her driver, meeting his eyes.

 

His are a pair that were many colours at once - blue and green and gray. His eyes are a pair that are suddenly all too familiar to her keep her grounded to the troubles at hand.

 

"Room service. To call," he lies.

 

She can't find the right way to hold her tongue long enough to even slur out a thank you. She just stares at him as he bows his head and leaves, his hands shaking in a way hands that young hands would never.

 

Should never.

 

* * *

 

 

_She hears the men following her speaking to each other. They don't hush their voices, don't bother to hide where they are. They don't need to hide. The entire place is theirs. She's the intruder. She's the hunted._

_"This way?" "I heard 'er over 'ere-" "Boys! Look at this over here! Our little mouse left footprints."_

_Her eyes squeeze shut, pushing out more silent tears. Quivering like a leaf, she crouches down, and peels her shoes off. Not that it could do anything. She's not supposed to be so scared. Maybe a little, but there had to be some courage. The heroes in movies always had courage. That's what made their fear into their bravery._

_She's not feeling brave._

_She doesn't get up. Only puts her shoes beside her. Sits on the ground with her knees to her chest. Waits. Her hands press into her mouth, hard enough that her fingernails dig into her cheeks. She wishes her breathing wasn't so loud._

_Wet shoes squeak close to her, and she manages not to cry out at the sound. She can hear the water seeping out of the soles. She wonders if feeling her blood will be like water flooding on the floor. Jesus christ, her blood is going to be on the floor-_

_Two arms envelop her tightly, and lips press against her brow._

 

_"Oh god," Sherlock chokes out, quietly. He's afraid of being too loud. He's hiding too. She cries into the fabric of her sleeve, pressing against him as he goes on, "You weren't supposed to come back. We have to go,"_

_She continues to cry, but Sherlock pulls at her, pulls her right to feet, "We have to go_ now _."_

_His hand finds hers, and they run._

_Her bare feet are silent on the warehouse floor._

 

* * *

 

 

She knows in hindsight that going to a dark alleyway in the middle of the night because a man in a wig gave her a piece of paper is a very, very bad idea.

 

Actually, she knows as she's going in that it's going to be a bad idea.

 

What the fuck is she doing.

 

She sighs, tapping the toe of her boot on the stone underneath her. She feels better now that her hair is out of the pins from before. It still curls in a way she's not used to, and not exactly comfortable with, but she's more comfortable knowing her face is hidden. There's something far more comforting about that anonymity. As if being invisible in a crowd could make her any more invisible here, now that she was alone.

 

God, that bloody detective was going to get her stabbed in the middle of Romania.

 

"Ms. Crawford?" someone asks, causing her to turn in surprise. A wiry man - this time she's sure it can't be Sherlock, he's far too skinny for even the detective's lean stature - is wandering up the street to her. In the dim light, she can see that his hair is fair, and combed quite nicely. He doesn't look scary at all, which is nice. If he was a ruffian out to kill her, at least he cleaned up.

 

She smiles, _yes that's me how do you do?_ and holds out her hand to shake, but he pouts and shakes his head.

 

"No no no, walk now. He be waiting, he wants to see you," the man tells her, his accent thick and barely decipherable, already turning his back. Utterly confused, but seeing no other choice, she follows him.

 

They don't have to walk far. Soon enough, the stranger stops at what could be best described as a pile of flats, as if someone had hazardously placed them all on top of one another in a rush. He holds the door for her as they go inside, and he rings the doorbell. It's for the third flat, she notices, but she doesn't have time to comment or wonder much about it, as they're buzzed in immediately. The man places a hand on her shoulder. She thinks he's trying to be comforting, but his grip is too strong.

 

There's an elevator, but the metal door has rusted over. Even without an occupant it creaks dangerously, so they choose to take the stairs. It isn't that high up, honestly, but the steep narrow steps have her thighs aching by the time they reach the top.

 

The third landing opens right out to the door of the flat. Her companion doesn't knock, instead opening the door and welcoming them both in. The flat is small. Two rooms, as far as she can tell. She's assuming Sherlock is in the bathroom, as the door's open ajar. The room they've step into is sparse, only furnished just enough for living. A fridge that looks broken down in the corner, a cot big enough for one, and a mirror that hangs beside the one window. The curtains are white lace, and her mother would have loved them. A light buzzes above their heads, but doesn't flicker.

 

She hopes and prays that the shape in the corner is not a rat.

 

"We should be safe here," the man says behind her as he moves past. The accent is gone, as is his friendly smile. He goes over to the mirror, blinking sharply. Then, suddenly, he sticks a finger in his eye.

 

Her hand flies to her mouth to hold back the yelp, but he's in no pain. He pulls out a contact, and she can see his eyes in the reflection. One as dark as night, the other, an eerie blue...

 

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Sherlock Holmes," she scolds.

 

The detective turns to her, looking more amused than anything by her outburst, "Pleasure as always,"

 

He looks back at the mirror and tries to remove the second colour contact, "Mycroft said a representative of MI6 was coming over with a file for me, he never said you were coming."

 

"Is that what's in my luggage? It's so full of stuff I don't know what to do with," she wonders out loud, moving across the room to sit on the cot. She would've sat somewhere else if she could. Sitting on his apparent bed might have been showing signals she wasn't trying to give. At least not now, not when he has that hair.

 

"Yes. I got it already. What I don't get though, is how you- damn-" Sherlock cuts himself off, and holds open his eye with one hand while the other tries again at the contact that's slipping out of his reach, "What I don't understand is why you came. How'd you convince them to let you come here?"

 

"W-why is it that I had to convince them? Maybe they asked me, you know,"

 

Sherlock's gaze in the reflection makes her want to shrivel up. She sighs.

 

"I asked your brother if I could."

 

 _"How?"_ he asks, bewildered.

 

She can't help but laugh, "I told him I was pregnant,"

 

The detective's head jerks violently at that, and this time, does prick himself in the eye. He moans in pain, holding the heel of his palm to his eye.

 

"And he thought it was _mine?_ "

 

"I didn't think he'd accept it so easily either, but... well. I'm the closest thing to a girlfriend you can have,"

 

Grumbling, Sherlock finally gets the contact out, "And what are you?"

 

"A... well, a friend that's a girl. It's not rocket science," her fingers fidget around her third finger, and she refuses to look at him despite her light tone.

 

"Oh," he stares down at the contact on his index finger dumbfounded for a moment, his mind wandering off the way it does sometimes, before he takes a deep breath in and tugs his line of thought back to the moment, "Well, we'll have you back to London soon enough. I'll send word along to Mycroft,"

 

"Sherlock-"

 

"If he can get you here, he can get you out-"

 

"But-" she starts to stand, but he moves away from her, towards the other end of the room to open the fridge door. From what she can see at her angle, there's nothing to look at. Is he- is this him trying to change the topic?

 

So, she sits back down and considers for a moment if she wants to let it happen. No, she decides, no she does not.

 

"You didn't say goodbye," she says firmly.

 

Sherlock doesn't answer, but she can tell by the way his joints freeze up that he knows what a heap of trouble he's in. Slowly, she pushes herself off the cot and stands.

 

"You left everything to come here, in the middle of nowhere, for this... mission. You don't care about all that. I know you don't. God knows you complain about your brother and his work enough for me to know that," He closes the fridge door, and straightens to look at her. She goes on, "So all of this... undercover work. Why? And why not say goodbye? Is this it, are you going to be gone forever-?"

 

"It's the assignment," he cuts in, "Immediate draft, it was all quite sudden, it wasn't as though I had any plans-"

 

"You could have left- a-a message or something," she tries.

 

He scoffs, "You're really missing the definition of _immediate_ , aren't you?"

 

“Of course, because your big hair dye show here took up a lot of your time,” she snarls out viciously, and hates how angry her voice gets. She can’t get angry, because all he does is stand there with that pitying look she hates to see.

 

“I gained weight too,” he offers, stashing his hands in his pockets.

 

She frowns at that, “You’ve lost weight, you’re thin as a twig.”

 

“Am I?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He looks down at his own belly and clicks his tongue thoughtfully, “Oh.”

 

"Are you going to come back to England with me?"

 

Sherlock regards her for a moment, and she can see when he decides to be honest with her, "No."

 

She swallows the lump in her throat, "Then that settles it."

 

"Settles what?"

 

"I'm helping you."

 

Sherlock goes quiet, staring at her in almost disbelief, but there's something she can't work out in his gaze. She can see that he's about to protest, as if she could see the word no hiding under his tongue.

 

He looks so lonely and hopeful.

 

* * *

 

 

_They take a door to a corridor with a metal staircase that goes up beyond her sight. Behind the stair, there's a door with a tinted window, letting moonlight shine through. She moves to go to the door, but Sherlock tugs her to the stair. They wanted to get out of the building, not go deeper into it. Not to mention, the stairs looked rickety and noisy. They'd be heard going up._

_"Come on," he says. She's sure her foot will snap in half on the first step, but the stair remains steady and silent as they race up, higher and higher into the building, passing landing after landing._

_Don't look down, she tells herself, and instinctively wants to defy the order of her mind._

_Sherlock pulls her sharply to the side of one landing, and yanks open the door._

_"Go, hurry," his voice has an edge to it, but it isn't hostile._

_He's just as scared as she is._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, he's her driver again. She makes him drive her to a Starbucks, and loiters around the cafe as he waits outside for her. He stills smiles for her and holds her door open for her when she steps back into the car.

 

The first two weeks, he's her driver, her bellboy, one memorable moment where she strongly suspects he's a rentboy who knocks on the wrong door, and above all, not the consulting detective she knows. She second guesses everyone she comes across, checking the slightest features for something that could betray him. It's trickier than she imagined it would be. His eyes give him away easily, but he replaces their unique hue with contacts. His cheekbones are a tell, but he can make his cheeks look fuller. His hair keeps changing from person to person he mimics, and she isn't even sure if his trademark locks have stayed.

 

It's been his smile that she notices. He changes it, but there's a way that the sides of his eyes crinkle, and the way his teeth are shown that she can just... see. Sometimes, not always. She's positive she's missed a few of the disguises.

 

She's always Ms. Crawford, with all these clothes she doesn't know how to wear. Sherlock nudges sunglasses her way whenever he can, and she takes the hint. Her makeup is simply not up to par to the standard of this Crawford woman, so she wears the glasses wherever she goes. Even at night.

 

Ms. Crawford spends most of her time in her room. When she's not in her room, she's being driven around. The car's wired, because Sherlock never slips. He is her driver, an elderly old man with no family, who worked on cars until he was too old to work on them, and started to drive them. Her driver takes her to places such as universities, office buildings with built in cafes on the bottom floor, fashion streets she didn't know could _exist_ until stepping onto one.

 

She has no money. She has a credit card. Mycroft Holmes' card, to be specific.

 

Ms. Crawford likes bringing many shopping bags back to her hotel room, and her driver likes to help her carry her bags.

 

* * *

 

 

_They find themselves in a meeting room. There's a long table in the center, with the chairs spotted about it, out of order. She finds herself wanting to go around and tuck them all in. The room is sparsely lit, the only light coming from thin slots at the side that were meant to be windows. Sherlock moves across the room, going to the other end, where there's a cleaners' closet. He picks the lock and starts going through, pushing mops out of the way._

_She moves to him, and touches his shoulder._

_"We have to get out of here," she says softly, "We can't hide, they'll turn this place over until they find us."_

_His progress is paused for a moment, before he continues on, clearing the space, "Yes, yes of course,"_

_"Sherlock," she says, because she can see the way his eyes fog over, trying to clog the tunnel vision that emotion gave him. She hates that he's trying to throw away his heart for this. She doesn't need a cold hard wall to protect her. She needs a sharp sword to fight with._

_Tightening her grip, she yanks him around to face her. He refuses to meet her gaze, but she tries anyways._

_"Talk to me, please. Don't figure this out by yourself,"_

_He blinks, hard, and pulls her towards him. His arms are locked around hers, so it makes embracing difficult, but she manages. His face burrows against her neck, and she can feel his breath hitching on her skin._

_"There's nothing to figure out," Sherlock's voice comes out hoarse. He's trying to be brave, trying to lay out the facts the way he does, but it's too late for either of them go back to the people they used to be, "Everything's already in place, everything has to happen."_

_She heaves a quiet sob, and tightens her throat. Her fingers curl against the back of his neck, "It's not time yet,"_

 

 

* * *

 

 

She stills feels as though this was inevitable, Sherlock taking the form of Mr. Crawford. He's blonde and has impeccable taste in fashion. Mr. Crawford kisses his wife clumsily, the way a man who thinks it doesn't get better than the first kiss. She should be more excited, her heart should hammer at his very touch, pound at the taste of his lips finally touching hers, after years of friendly cheek grazes.

 

But Ms. Crawford has married Mr. Crawford for his money, not his sloppy kisses.

 

Mr. Crawford brings his wife to dinners, with people that look like they might be royalty. She doesn't know the answers to any of the questions she's asked, but Sherlock covers for her, keeping his arm wrapped snugly around her waist, his hand possessively on her hip. They spend most of their time befriending one particular couple, a man with a beautiful smile and an arm around his wife. They mirror each other. Silent women and men with beautiful smiles.

 

She goes to the bathroom and invites the wife to go with her. The men tease her for not wanting to go alone. She doesn't mention she doesn't want to leave the other woman alone.

 

The woman's name is Alba, like the actress, and she's been with her husband for seven years. She's from Cape Town, where her father still keeps a big house by the ocean. She hasn't been back since her marriage, and misses the feeling of sand. Alba visited Romania with her father for a dinner, just like this one, and that was where she met her husband. Her father introduced them, and she's barely been let out of the man's sight since. Her husband is just like her father, always so so angry. She has a lover in Madrid, and she was once pregnant because of him. Alba told her husband it was his, and he made her lose it.

 

"Abortion?" she asks, confused by the way her new friend's hands weave together nervously. Alba's lip quivers, and she's only able to shake her head. She sighs in sympathy and wraps Alba up in her arms as the woman begins to cry.

 

She can't stand the noise. It hurts, in a way that strikes deep in her core. She shouldn't say what she's about to. Sherlock trusted her, let her into his world of secrets. This would compromise them.

 

But Alba had already been pushed past compromise.

 

"We're taking him down. He'll go to jail, and you'll never see him again."

 

Fuck jail. She'd snap the bastard's neck herself if she was let close enough.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Sherlock presses his hand against hers, and she feels the weight of something small. She lifts her hand, only to see a USB._

_"This goes to Mycroft," he looks at her steadily, "You hear me?"_

_"Sherlock, no-"_

_He presses her fingers closed around the USB, pulls her knuckles up to his lips, then pushes her hand to her chest, "Keep it safe. It's all that matters now."_

_"He's going to find us," she promises him._

_"Maybe," he murmurs._

_She grabs him by the chin, and yanks him around to face her, "No, listen. Mycroft. will. find. us."_

_"We don't matter," he shakes his head, "It's not us, it's the information. It's all that matters,"_

_"You matter to me," she must have said, because he shakes his head again, almost violently this time._

_"It's not fair," he protests, "For you to reciprocate my feelings the way you do,"_

_She reaches out for him, but he grabs her suddenly, his fist in her hair, and she feels a sharp poke at her neck. Her vision swirls, and she realizes she's been drugged. Unbelievably, all she can think about is how she was the one that fell in love first._

 

* * *

 

 

The pads of fingertips are soft as they slide over her neck. She moves into the gentle touch, humming appreciatively. She's never been ticklish, and the pressure people used to tickling had always been so sweet to her nerves. She opens her eyes lazily as a thumb traces her jaw.

 

There's a man in a mask hovering over her. At the sight of her eyes, his hands tighten and she can't breathe. Her hands are pinned on one side, using both the man's hand and hip to keep her down. His free elbow is digging into her chest. Already her head is reeling from lack of oxygen.

 

She can't even scream. She can only gape like a fish, her eyes bulging as she struggles, more and more weakly. Her vision's already going dark when the hand finally goes limp. She gasps for air, wheezing loudly as her eyes slip shut. The weight of her chest is dragged off, and she can hear a faint grunt of exertion. It's accompanied by a loud thud of a body hitting the floor.

 

A hand checks her pulse, the other smooths her hair back.

 

"Can you get up? C'mon," Sherlock's voice hovers over her, and he helps her sit up. Feeling weak, she leans against him, and gulps down air. She's embarrassed to feel tears pricking in the corners of her eyes, so she blinks quickly to get rid of them.

 

"Wha'-What," she coughs, and rubs her throat, "What happened?"

 

"We're out in the open," he pulls at her, tugging her to her feet. She's in nothing but a nightdress, so he moves away from her, gathering something she can change into, "No point hiding it for the cameras in here, we have to go,"

 

"What?" she asks, not understanding. She catches the trousers he throws his way, and sits down to tug them on.

 

"They found out our disguise, our cover's blown, abort mission, _nous sommes fucked_. Get your clothes on," he scolds her, tossing a t-shirt at her.

 

He’s busy grabbing other things around the room, so she takes the quick moment to strip.

 

"Who's they? How did they find us?"

 

"I reckon your little friend snitched. How could you have been so stupid? Revealing the operation to a _suspect_ ,"

 

"Alba's not the suspect, the husband is!" she tosses her night dress aside and levels up with him. She pokes him in the chest when he opens his mouth in a snarl, "You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes! You can't blame that poor woman for this!"

 

He bristles like an angry cat, and doesn't bother replying. Instead he opens a duffle bag that Ms. Crawford would never own, and throws more things inside.

 

"What do we do now?"

 

"We? Nothing. You are being picked up by Mycroft, you're going back to London. It was a mistake to let you stay-"

 

She shakes her head, "What? No, I'm not leaving! Sherlock, I'm already a part of this!"

 

"And what?" he turns suddenly to loom over her, sneering in her face, "You think it's not so simple to just chop the part that is you right off? What are you contributing to this mission, pray tell?"

 

"All the information Alba gave us was _through me_ , you prat!" she snaps. She feels like a snake spitting venom, "She was the one that told me about all those girls at the house, the girls that have been rescued, might I add-"

 

"This mission has never been about a bloody sex ring," Sherlock scoffs.

 

"It doesn't mean I haven't done something good here! Jesus christ, those girls were saved because of me! If all this... this... Bond stuff isn't for the sake of protecting people that need our help, then-"

 

Sherlock cuts her off with a low chuckle, dark and menacing and utterly condescending, "Ohhh, this is what it's all for, is it? You think this is some bloody movie where there's a happy ending! I'm not an alarm clock, I don't have the bloody time to be your wake up call. There's no hero here, there's no Bond that's going to swoop in at the end of it all. There is the work. Period."

 

"And you're just stupid for thinking that there's no such thing as heroes, Sherlock Holmes," she hisses. She has to rise up on her tiptoes, finding balance by gripping his arm, but it doesn't matter, because honestly, there seems to be no other way of getting her words through his thick skull without spitting them right in his face, "Because for once, I see one."

 

"I'm no hero," he warns her, and she can feel the nerve to huff out a cruel laugh. Cruelty feels good. It warms under the surface of her skin, curling up in places that makes her feel like she's going to be this invincible forever.

 

"Who ever said you were the hero here?"

 

Sherlock exhales, letting go of a breath he must have realized he was holding at that moment, going by the look of surprise on his face. There's no way to hide the way his jaw tightens and flexes, the way his eyes widen. It takes her a moment to realize, _holy shit_ , she was the one that said that. Her throat works, half wanting to apologize immediately, while the other half of her smothers the words. She ends up pushing it out, and her body aches at the feeling of it, like she's lost something so precious.

 

"I'm sorry,"

 

He looks even more baffled, if possible. He studies her face carefully, cautiously, as if she'd snap wolf teeth at him if he dawdled.

 

"You should- ah, you should put your shirt on."

 

It shouldn't be possible to turn as red as she does, but she feels ready to burst into flames. She lets go of him, and hastily rushes back to the bed where the t-shirt he'd tossed her way had landed. Slipping it on fast, she turns back and Sherlock is finishing up grabbing everything. He sneaks a glance at her, then looks at her full on when he realizes she's facing him. He hesitates, then heaves the bag over his shoulder and moves to her. With a steady hand on her shoulder, he guides her away from the still unconscious intruder and towards the door.

 

"We have to go,"

 

"Where to?"

 

He peeks out the door, up and down the hall, then grabs her hand.

 

"Somewhere we're untraceable,"

 

* * *

 

 

_Her head clatters like a loose pipe, a ringing noise that seems neverending. She's too sluggish to lift her hand to her forehead, much less whimper from the pain. She's curled up in a corner, and she can make out a light a bit more than arm's reach. There's some muffled voices. Yelling. Lots of yelling she can't get. Then there's the sound of fist hitting flesh, and a familiar voice crying out in pain._

_She's barely conscious and fear clutches at her heart._

_Sherlock's in danger._


	2. Chapter 2

 

"Wake up."

 

Sherlock shoves her harshly. She feels the press of the car door handle digging into her side, and the frame of the window digging into her cheek. She doesn't know how long she's been asleep, but it's still dark, and she feels like being sick. The smell of smoke invades her nose, and she realizes that has to be what's giving her the nauseous sensation.

 

She sits up, and looks at Sherlock in disbelief. He has both hands on the wheel, his knuckles going white with the strain. He has a cigarette pinched between two fingers of his left hand, and his wrists are shaking.

 

"Bloody hell, it reeks in here," she complains, and goes to open her car window. Sherlock reaches over to slap at her hand, but she already has the window rolled down. An onslaught of rain hits her, and Sherlock leans over to roll it back up for her.

 

"Keep it up," he snaps. She isn't sure if he's scolding her or threatening her without conclusion. She pats her hair, and takes it out of the ponytail she kept it in so she can fluff it out.

 

"Oh, I'm soaked. And quit smoking, please,"

 

"I have. Four times now. Obviously it hasn't worked out. Smoke when I'm stressed, so rehab says. Cheers for being a wet blanket though," he raises his eyebrows in exaggeration and empathizes, _"Literally."_

 

"You've been to rehab?" she has no idea why she's stunned to hear that. She should've bloody well known after the heart attack he gave her after Mary and John's wedding. He doesn't grace her with a verbal response. Only a withering glare.

 

She sighs, shifting in her seat to get comfortable again, "I guess I can't be surprised by that,"

 

"Excuse me?" he has the nerve to sound awfully offended.

 

"Oh come off it, after your stint a few months back, getting into-"

 

"That was for a case," he spits out.

 

"What isn't for you? You're working yourself to death,"

 

The car jerks as he glances in her direction, and she grabs at the dashboard to keep herself balanced, "Sherlock-!"

 

She cuts herself off because she's sure he was going to do it for her. But he doesn't say anything. Baffled, she looks at him. Sherlock stares down the road, shoulders hunched in to make himself smaller. His hands are going white on the steering wheel. After a long moment, he stiffly pushes the button that makes the window wiper go faster. It's not the rain that makes his vision blurry.

 

She's never seen Sherlock cry before, and watches with morbid curiosity.

 

* * *

 

 

_She looks around, trying to access her surroundings. It's dark, but she can make out shapes. Long poles that stretch above her. On her left and in front of her, assorted bulk with sharp edges surround her, like a perverse crib to rest in. It forces her into a fetal position, and she can already feel the ache in her knees. How long had she been like this?_

 

 

_The light she could see was a door, she recognizes suddenly. Her dad used to keep her door propped open just like this, so the light from the hall could act as a nightlight. There's nothing to see beyond it, not from this angle. Nothing but wall and ceiling._

 

 

_She tries shifting around. Her wrists are behind her back, bound together with a plastic that dug when she tried to move her hands. Her feet are as well, although she_ _thinks its a different material, because it doesn't have an edge. Maybe rope? She can't move them either way._

 

 

_There's a loud yelp from outside her little room. She twitches at the sound, and strains her ears. There's some thumping, and more shudders of pain. If she had hesitance to guess before, there was no denying it now. It was most definitely Sherlock being hurt. After all this time, she knew his every gasp and moan and cry. How many were out there? Would it work if she distracted them? Of course, surely it would. All Sherlock needed was a distraction, to sweep the rug out from under their attackers' feet. Quite possibly literally. Then he'd be able to fight back._

 

 

_She wiggles again, managing to get an elbow underneath herself to push herself up. The light from the room stings in one eye, and she can see what's happening, when she realizes something's shifted against her chest. She looks down,and spots, on a little chain around her neck, the USB stick Sherlock held out to her before._

 

 

_Another grunt of pain makes her look up. She can see the backs of men, swinging feet, and Sherlock, bruised and bloodied on the ground, not fighting back, not even looking up at his abusers._

 

 

_Instead, he looks blankly away and takes the hits. No, not blankly._

 

 

_He looks right at her._

 

 

_He looks right at her and she remembers._

 

 

_They don't matter. All that matters is the work._

 

 

_She holds her breath, and lies back down._

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in London, a bunch of women and men run around an office, tapping on keyboards and transferring the same file between different hands again and again.

 

Mycroft Holmes stands in the middle of it all.

 

“They can't have just _disappeared,”_ he insists.

 

“There's absolutely no trace, sir,” one man reports, “Not any of the trackers in the civilian's clothing, not the agent's phone, no CCTV signs, none of the buses, trains, or planes report anything. By all means sir, yes, yes they have disappeared.”

 

“Sir,”

 

Mycroft turns, feeling the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Anthea holds out her phone for him to take while the head technician goes on.

 

“We have to at least entertain the possibility that they've... well, that our operatives are out of service.”

 

Mycroft's eyebrows raise as he looks down at the phone in his hand, before holding out the phone for his employee to read.

 

“Looks as though our operatives are unsinkable,” the man assures smoothly.

 

Blazed in white against a black background, reads a single text.

 

**NOT DEAD. WE'RE IN. -SH**

 

Meanwhile, not too far from the MI6 headquarters, in a hospital room not far from the lab in which he first met Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's phone chirps in his pocket. Quickly, so as not to wake Mary or the sleeping newborn in the cot beside him, he pulls it out. John's about to turn it off when he sees the signature at the end of the text.

 

 

**MARGARET EMILY HOOPER. SHE HAPPENS TO HAVE A GIRL'S NAME.-SH**

 

* * *

 

 

_“That's enough, I think,”_

 

 

_The beating stops, just like that. She can hear Sherlock's breathing, ragged and heavy in the silence. She holds her breath. Somehow, she knows if she even inhales, it'll be as loud as Sherlock. She can't afford to be heard._

 

 

_“How long you been at him?” the voice asks, and another responds._

 

 

_“Hours, sir. Just like you said,”_

 

 

_“Good,” There's the shifting of fabric – someone kneeling down, “Hey Colt. Howya doin'? You're not looking that great,”_

 

 

_She's grateful she can't see. She's sure if she could, she would cry. But what she hears makes her all too aware of what's happening. There's a splat, Sherlock spitting out. There's a hit, the man in charge throwing a punch. A shout, Sherlock reacting to the pain._

 

 

_The pain, the pain, god there's nothing but pain._

 

 

_She should've never followed Sherlock to Death's doorstep._

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn't recognize the country when Sherlock tells her where they are. The entire thing is about the size of London. When she tries to make a joke about the capital being the size of her flat, he doesn't laugh. But that's because he's not paying attention to her.

 

“My name is Colt, no last name. Yours is Angel, no last name. They're not our real names, when people ask, you tell them it's been so long you don't remember. You make it a joke,” he says as they stand in the kitchen of the motel room they share.

 

She nods, playing with her food rather than eating it, “I make it a joke. I'm that girl?”

 

“What girl?” he frowns again at her, and she shakes her head.

 

“Nothing it's... the girl that thinks everything funny, those really confident girls. Basically the opposite of me.” Angel didn't even seem like the kind of name a face like hers could make up. Angel seemed more like a blonde haired, blue eyed... bigger boobs. She looks down at her own chest distastefully.

 

“I should dye my hair,” she says decisively, She sets her fork down and picks up a strand of her mousy brown hair, “I should dye it blonde,”

 

Sherlock reaches out – the kitchen was small enough that he could even as he leaned against the wall opposite – and takes the strand from her fingers. He runs his thumb over it, like a designer judging fabric, before he makes eye contact.

 

“Keep it,” he murmurs.

 

Like he needs time to recover from meeting her gaze, he takes in a sharp breath and slips into the other room.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Colt? Hey, hey, look at me, right here. Thaaat's it. Look me in the eye, now, we got a conversation to have, eh?”_

 

 

_“Fuck off,”_

 

 

_“Oof! Colt's got the mouth on him. Or, should I say-”_

 

 

_She knows it's coming, she knew it was coming the second they uploaded the information, but she still shuts her eyes in defeat when she hears what the man says._

 

 

_“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”_

 

* * *

 

It's not the same as it was with Ms. Crawford. Ms. Crawford was a pretty dress and a dead smile that didn't reach the eyes. She didn't have to pretend to be happy or angry or sad with Ms. Crawford, because Ms. Crawford felt none of those things. She wasn't real.

 

But Angel is vibrant and tangible and doesn't mind people touching her and grabbing her and even kissing her. That shouldn't be so important, because Sherlock explains that that's just the kind of people these kind of people are. Intimate. Men like kissing her. Women like kissing her. They're all friends, so it's all ok. They're just friends, friends who just mentioned the other day that _if you're still looking for a job, we're a part of this... group. Nothing too serious, just maybe carting a few things around. All we do is transport._ They're just friends, and they don't know they're being lied to.

 

It's okay because Sherlock's there to protect her, even if he isn't Sherlock anymore. He's Colt, who's big and silent and quite frankly, terrifying. He's an absolute beast, Colt is, and he watches Angel kiss other people with a hungry look in his narrow, brown eyes. His eyes look just like hers with the contacts, although no one knows they're contacts. His hair is a mess of brown curls, a shade of brown that matches hers, and no one says it but everyone _suspects._

 

“They won't say anything,” he explains to her one night.

 

“They won't?” she asks cautiously, in case he's simply soothing her worried mind. It doesn't matter, they're not even related in real life, but some small voice in her head whispers thoughts that makes her stomach twist uncomfortably. It makes her feel like there's something so wrong about them sharing a bedroom, even if Sherlock does never sleep and even if they don't... well, they _don't._

 

“No. People with secrets run away to places like this. That'll just have to be our secret,”

 

* * *

 

 

_Her chest goes cold at the sound. Sherlock's name was spoken. They knew who he was. They know who she is, at this point. They have to. The mousy little pathologist in Sherlock's circle. His friend. All his other friends – Greg, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mary-! Oh god, Mary had been pregnant, she had a baby. All of Sherlock's friends are targets, everything Sherlock held and would hold dear is a target._

 

 

_And if they knew who she was..._

 

 

_She has nothing for them to touch. They couldn't hold anything, anyone over her, because she has no one._

 

 

_No one but Sherlock._

 

* * *

 

 

“Corner in the back,” Vitta mentions as she passes by, cleaning a table. She frowns at her friend.

 

“What about it?” she glances over, and sees a group of men, “I only clean here love, you know I don't do orders-”

 

“Colt's over, he ask for you,” the Russian in Vitta's voice slips out, and she goes pale at the sound of it. She, like everyone else, had been disguising it in an American accent. Angel's the only one that sounds different, but that's okay because – well, she's Angel. That's why she stares at Vitta, long enough and hard enough that the woman slips away.

 

With a smirk on her lips, she goes over to see what Sherlock wants.

 

Colt's sitting around the largest table at the bar, eyeing everything and everyone carefully. But when he sees her, his face relaxes and he holds out an arm for her. She comes close for a hug, and he pulls her into his lap.

 

“My accomplice, Angel,” he says warmly. The men at the table nod to her, but only one leans forward and introduces himself.

 

“Caine Grogersky,” he smiles, and she smirks back.

 

“All you want? Her?” a man sitting right across asks, indifferent to the preying look she sends at him. He's big and burly and she feels a warmth in her stomach, something like attraction. Which was odd, because he certainly wasn't her type. Maybe it was just because he's Angel's type.

 

As if he could read her thoughts, Sherlock's grip on her thigh suddenly gets tighter. His voice betrays nothing when he replies back, “We do all jobs together. She's the brawn. I just get her there,”

 

“Mmm, he _always_ gets me there,” Angel coos, leaning back on Colt to arch her back _just_ enough to make all the other men laugh nervously and squirm in their seats.

 

Their new employers don't suspect a thing.

 

* * *

 

 

_“See now, Sherlock, you picked the wrong place to hide. See, there's lots of places that work for us, places that were probably easier to get to too. But you thought you'd be safe here, 'cause you probably thought we're the idiots. If you get caught by us, eh, it won't be so bad. 'Cause what stupid people do, when stupid people need information and they gots to hurt others to get that information, they whisk 'em away in a little car, off to a cottage in the middle of nowhere. That sounds like smart to some people. No no here, we won't underestimate you the way you underestimate us. Think I'm taking you anywhere other than this room? Think I'll let you anywhere near a car? Something you can use against us? Nuh uh. There ain't nothing here to help you. You can't scream, you can't phone, nothing here to help you. There's gonna be you and my boys 'ere. See, see my boys there? I say jump, they say how high. I say I want some chains, they get me chains. I say I want knives, they get me knives. I say I want a red hot poker to drive right into your stomach, they already got the coals started. I say I'm tired, I go home while they beat the shit out of you. I could kill you, and they just go get a doc to bring you back. See Sherlock, you get it? I could keep at you for months. All you gots to do... look me in the eye, dead right here, and you tell me where you hid that intel you stole. Get it?”_

 

 

_The silence is punctured by heavy breathing, thin and furious._

 

 

_“Months?” Sherlock finally says. He sounds like he's speaking with his larynx hanging out of his mouth, “Months? Try me,”_

 

* * *

 

The pair of them lean against the side of the brick building. Sherlock has a cigarette pinched between his fingers. He hasn't stopped smoking since they left the bar in their truck for pick up, and she isn't sure if he's playing the character or his addiction's getting worse. Not that Angel cares. She's still pretending to be her, because there might be people watching them as they wait.

 

That's what she keeps telling herself.

 

Tapping her boot against the pavement, Angel rolls her head back. She looks over at Colt, and holds out her hand, “Pass it.”

 

“You don't smoke,” Sherlock scolds her. She narrows her eyes, and leans over to pinch his arm. He yelps, and smacks her hand away.

 

“What the fuck, M-” he looks at her with her smirk, the kind of smile her lips didn't know before, and corrects himself, “Angel. Get your own, it's in the truck.”

 

“I want yours,” she replies easily, because Angel's responses are so ingrained in her that it _scares_ her. She doesn't know where the character stops and she begins. She doesn't know if she begins at all, if Angel has simply taken over.

 

“Come off it,” he says _._

 

“I want yours,” she repeats, and reaches out for the cigarette. The man finally hands it over, and she sucks on it greedily, as if she were the addict. He watches her, half of him baffled by the look of her smoking, the other half impatient to have the nicotine back in his lungs.

 

Either way, he can't take his eyes off of her.

 

* * *

 

 

_Months, Sherlock's promised. He says he can go for months, and he's so damn strong, he's so damn good, that she doesn't doubt it. But she has the intel they're looking for right around her neck, how the hell will she get out? Does she stay? Whoever that man was, he promised Sherlock he'd make him live. No one knew she was in there except Sherlock, and they both knew she couldn't be found._

 

 

_It takes the human body three weeks before it dies from lack of food._

 

 

 _It takes the human body three_ days _before it dies from lack of water._

 

* * *

 

A month in, and aside from the table bussing Angel does, and the money Colt rakes in with all the gambling, they work a job twice a week. Mostly just picking up drugs or booze and giving it to their boss. Nothing big. Nothing big for Angel, anyways. But when she's not in character, when she's sitting at home in the motel room they keep, she goes over all the things she's done when she's not herself and it bothers her.

 

She's sitting in the car while Sherlock's picking up their latest package brooding about it, when she hears the shout. A yell that cuts out far too fast. She doesn't even hesitate to wrench her car door open.

 

Down the alleyway he disappeared into, two men grapple. She recognizes Sherlock by his voice, grunting and struggling. He's losing the fight, without a doubt. She casts her gaze about, looking for something she could use to help when-

 

She jumps at the first gun shot, her heart hammering so hard she's convinced she was the one that was shot. But then the second one happens, and the man Sherlock's fighting with collapses.

 

She sees something she'd never seen before. But in that single moment, she couldn't look at him the same. The weight on his shoulders, the shake in his hand, how could she not see it before? Sherlock Holmes is a murderer.

 

He looks up at her, and slowly tells her, “He cut my arm. It's deep. I'm not feeling good,”

 

It's the clipped way his sentences come out, forced but necessary, that makes her believe he's in trouble. She hurries over, and gets him in the car. Damn the drug transfer. She takes over the wheel, steps on the pedal and gets them out of there. Sherlock presses his hand against his bicep, huffing air in and out. She can see the blood seeping out between his fingers. Damn the drug transfer. Damn Angel and Colt and the stupid mission.

 

She gets them back to their room. She gets him to take off his shirt and sit down at the two person table. She grabs what she thinks she needs from the kitchen and cleans him up. She becomes what she's always been, what both of them have always seen her as. She's a doctor.

 

“We don't have a bandage for this,” she says halfway through, still cleaning the wound.

 

“Bedsheet, rip it,” he grits out. She takes a pair of scissors to it instead, and still manages to get the job done.

 

“It'll heal fine, it just needs to stay-” In a moment of aphasia, she doesn't know what to say, and interweaves her fingers together.

 

“Bound?” he suggests, and she nods.

 

“Yeah. Bound, it'll be fine,” she doesn't meet his gaze, instead staring at the mess she made on the table. In the corner of her eye, he shifts, leaning the elbow of his good arm against the table. She can see blood still staining the skin of the bad one.

 

Feeling an overwhelming urge to clean, she grabs a wet cloth and starts wiping down his arm. He touches hers, and she thinks he's helping her get a better angle underneath the bandage where she can't see.

 

He suddenly leans in close, and she turns her head just in time to avoid a kiss. His lips slide across her cheek before he realizes what she's done and stops himself, but the touch stings the same way a proper kiss would. She pushes her chair back and stands up, getting away.

 

“Don't. Don't kiss me like that,” she tells him, one hand to her cheek like she's cradling an injury.

 

There's a long beat of silence. She doesn't know why she's suddenly vehemently against his touch, not when she spent years imagining what it would feel like. Maybe it was because she never imagined it to be so warm. She never imagined the way her heart would sink right into her stomach – well, not literally, that was biologically impossible, wasn't it? For her heart to sink right into her stomach, it was biologically impossible, biologically wrong. She'd die if it happened. She'd die if he touched her again.

 

He finally asks, his tongue carefully touching each syllable before he lets it escape, “How would you like me to kiss you?”

 

“Not... not now,” she leans into her palm, and turns away from him. She closes her eyes and breathes for a moment, “I mean, maybe when... it isn't like this. When we aren't working. When we go back to London...”

 

She doesn't see the pain that flashes across his face.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Always a bit exciting, the beginning of this kind of stuff, ain't it?Ain't it Sherlock? See, I can do whatever I like to kick off, that's the fun part. I can do whatever I like, got lots of options. Almost hard to pick. We already beat you, that's no fun.”_

 

_Her nose picks up the smell of cigarette smoke wafting through the air. The man takes a long drag and blows it out. Sherlock coughs weakly, groaning at the feeling of aggravating his aching muscles._

 

 

_“You know, we can google it. Top ten torture methods, thousand hits in a 'alf a second. Or something like that. Stevie, google top ten torture methods for me.”_

 

 

_“If your method of torture is boredom, I'm sure it'll be a quick death,”_

 

 

_“Nah, too easy. Let's try this. Whatcha gonna do when we get your girl?”_

 

 

_There's a sharp inhale, too shaky and panicked to be the torturer. Sherlock can hardly breathe._

 

 

_“That's a good one right there? Emotional manipulation, always a good way to warm you up. Let me tell you, you can comfort yourself with the fact that we don't have her, that you can still save her but see, it still gets in there. It gets in your head, the images. Even if you get away, the thought of me putting a bullet in her head will haunt you. A fucking bullet in that pretty little head of hers, no clean up is gonna wash the blood away from all that brown hair. Angel, is it? Did you pick that name? She doesn't have any wings, Sherlock, just as human as you and me. But, you know what I could do. I could carve it out of her back, just for you. Maybe I'll even let you live long enough to see it. Maybe, if I'm feeling nice, I'll let you shoot her in the head.”_

* * *

 

 

It gets to her. How, she doesn't know, because she tried so hard to not let it get to her. But Sherlock is in the bathroom, for fuck's sake he's only taking a piss, and she just loses it. She has voices in her head now, that fucking Angel whispering thoughts she doesn't want to hear. The mission gets to her, and she literally collapses from the pressure of it all.

 

It's barely been four months since she first got off the plane in Romania.

 

Four months, four months, she moans over and over, her arms folded over her stomach, rocking back and forth.

 

“S _peak softly,”_ Angel taunts in her mind. The character is lashing out against the transport that is her fragile and worn body, trying to take over, and it physically hurts. Her head is pounding.

 

“Stop.”

 

_“Little words for a little girl. So ugly and pathetic, they'll eat you alive. They'll eat your flesh right off your bone.”_

 

She sniffles and hides her face behind her hands, as if Angel was a visceral human standing before her. See no evil, hear no evil. But Angel isn't really there. Angel's just a voice in her head.

 

She's going crazy.

 

Hands grasp at her wrists. Stronger, larger hands.

 

“Why are you crying, what's wrong-” Sherlock asks. She looks up to meet those fake brown eyes, those eyes that he made look just like hers, and she feels something twist inside her. Angel laughs.

 

 

_“You're a child he has to take care of, the little sister he has to babysit. He thinks you're his sister and you want to sleep with him,”_

 

She positively howls, curling into herself. Sherlock immediately sits down behind her and wraps himself around her, curled up on the floor of their dingy room. What Angel says is not true, it's not even a little true, but the sin eats her alive. It's so wrong to think of him that way, it's so wrong to want his touch, Colt is Angel's brother - Sherlock is her friend - she doesn't know the difference any more. She's going to hell, she's going to hell -

 

Sherlock's hands are suddenly on her head, putting pressure, making her ears ring.

 

“Don't listen,”

 

“Sherlock, it's not real-” she wails, shaking her head at her foolishness. She's going mad. She's going mad and he's encouraging it, because somehow, some way, he knows Angel's breaking her from the inside, and he's telling her it's real. It isn't comforting, it just hurts more, having him participate in this folie a deux.

 

“I know it's not real, I know, I know, just don't-” he adjusts his grip, his elbow hooking under hers so he's closer, “-listen. Don't listen. It's just the time, it's just time eating away at your brain. If you don't listen it doesn't work, just don't listen.”

 

He shifts again so she's leaning on him entirely, as he moves his legs so she's sitting in between. She lets him, still crying as she sends the mean voice away, fighting back for control in her own head.

 

“ _You wouldn't last a day without me, you're fucking useless,”_ Angel hisses, and she shakes her head.

 

Sherlock holds her steady, his breathing heavy, reminding her again, “Don't listen.”

 

She's tired. Her head's pounding like a fucking drum from all the thoughts screaming. She's going mad.

 

“Y _ou're gonna die.”_

 

“Oh please Sherlock, I don't know what to do,” she sobs, shaking her head. He clings all the more tighter, his elbows digging against the side of her breasts and his fingers marring her skull. She's about to beg again, desperate for him to fix everything, when his voice comes up in a rush.

 

“I need you, I need you, please, I can't let you lose it too, I need you, just don't listen, please, I need you,”

 

Angel doesn't have anything to say about the sudden wet patch she feels in her hair, where Sherlock's face pushes against her head. Angel doesn't have anything to say about the way his chest hiccups against her back. Angel isn't saying anything at all.

 

It's blissfully silent.

 

* * *

 

 

_Sherlock yelps again, not bothering to disguise the heaved breath that escapes like a sob as they slice into him once more. She can't take it. She can't take it. She can't take it. If she has to sit through one more, she's going to get up. She's going to reveal herself, she's going to die, they're going to torture her and kill her and make Sherlock watch because that would be torture for him, and it's not about her. It's about Sherlock Holmes getting the better of them and they're angry._

 

 

_“What if I start guessing? Is it... in your pockets?”_

 

 

_Sherlock cries out, the sound garbling in his throat. It makes her flinch. It makes her want to cry. She wants to kick her feet in protest, but they're bound together. But she can't be heard._

 

 

_She has to sit still while they torture him and kill him and make her watch._

 

* * *

 

She's in a dirty bar when she learns the truth, standing in the hallway outside the room where Sherlock's meeting their informant. After two months of being Colt and Angel, MI6 had finally caught up to them, he. She has to wait outside the backroom like a child, letting the grown-ups have their talk inside. She wants to run away out of spite, just to scare Sherlock. _You did this, you pushed me to this._

 

But she leans against the wall opposite the door and waits like a good little civilian.

 

“He's getting impatient.”

 

A scoff that is far too familiar to be strange to her ears is heard, followed by Sherlock's flippant,“Oh please, like he's ever _not_. What took you so long to find us?”

 

“Sorry,” the unknown voice didn't sound sorry at all, “I'll consider that next time you go off mission. You were supposed to stay close to Derek Dervoot, and now you're right at the bottom of the organization, with the cartels. How are you going to get close enough to Paris?”

 

“You think that's going to be a problem? I'm right under Grogersky's nose. Believe it or not, I know how to do my job, Delacroix.”

 

“Then prove it for heaven's sake, Sherlock! Start moving up, we're running out of time. _You two_ are running out of time. Unless you plan on-”

 

“No, I need her!”

 

The silence was short before Sherlock hastened to correct himself.

 

“I need my partner, I have no connections with the women of the bar, she has pull with them as Angel. Before the six months are up, yes, but we need more time.”

 

The mysterious stranger gives a sigh, and there's a bit of rummaging. She peeks in, and sees the woman pulling out paperwork. A hand – Sherlock's hand – reaches out and picks it up. After a moment, he slaps it down.

 

“What the hell is Mycroft playing at?”

 

“Not Mycroft. You didn't bother with this the first time around when we delivered it with everything else in Bucharest, but this is mandatory agent form.”

 

“You're giving me my own bloody _will?_ ”

 

“I wrote it, Sherlock, not your brother.”

 

“You did it under his order.”

 

“I understand... sentiment. If you read through it, you'll see everything ought to be to your liking.”

 

Sherlock huffs, shuffling papers, and finally replies, “I have more time, you know.”

 

“Again, you went off mission. Six months is doubtful at this point, to be quite frank. You could be dead by tomorrow.”

 

She isn't a child. She isn't going to run away. But her body doesn't get the message. Her legs jolt and start to move. Air squeezes through her tight throat, wheezing through her mouth. She needed fresh air, she just needed to breathe. She didn't even realize she cried out.

 

She's reached the end of the hallway, right at the door with the EXIT sign, when two strong arms wrap around her, pulling her back. She struggles for a moment, before a breath that she knows the sound of touches her ear. The fight she gave has them both tumbling – his back to the wall, her back to his chest.

 

Sherlock's hand touches her mouth, his palm closing over her lips to stop her pitiful sounds. They're pressing so closely, that his teeth run over her ear as he hushes her, then whispers, “Stay, please stay.”

 

Her chest heaves, and she thinks she's about to cry. She twists away from his voice, and his hand falls to her collarbone. She should have known. She should have been more like him, should have just seen the signs.

 

“Did you always know? Six months?” her voice wobbles and breaks, turning to meet his steady gaze. Her nose touches his as she goes on,“Six months until you die?”

 

His hand runs up and down her neck, her nerves screaming in agony from the fire of his fingertips. He traces her jaw like a sculptor smoothing down marble.

 

“No,” his mouth moves to hers, but he denies them both the comfort of a kiss, “Six months to live.”

 

And only two months left.

 

* * *

 

 

_“You're good at this, Sherly!”_

 

 

_Her arm's gone numb. It's been hours, and Sherlock has remained steadyfast in not saying a word about the data. She still feels like she's heard too much. All the screams, the swears, the absolute pain... it's something no one should hear. It's something no one should go through._

 

 

_Sherlock's air comes out staggered, but he still replies, bitter and deadly and furious, “If you knew anything about me, you'd know you're not my first.”_

 

 

_“Yeah, I know about that shit. Up against Mihajlovic. Who doesn't know about it? You escaped right under her nose. Not very many get to live to tell the tale about her whipper boys, you know? What'd they do to you, eh? C'mon, tell the class, what'd they do to you?”_

 

 

_She closes her eyes, and inhales sharply through her nose. It sounds like a cannon sounding at the beginning of a race._

 

 

_And Sherlock goes off._

 

 _"In the grand scheme of things, torture until death isn't all that different. Victim in endless pain, someone's always on the giving end, finished when one of them's dead. A bit like marriage. Dearly beloved we here today, today, tomorrow, a week from now, eight weeks from now, that's how long it lasted last time, mind. Eight weeks. No one going anywhere, a series of six punishers cycling in and out of the room. No windows, one door, guarded by a single armed man. Underground. You're right about the whips, but most of it was psychological, much more subtle than the sloppy work you've been attempting for the past few hours. Stripped down to underclothing, it was a wave of overwhelming humiliation, but not nearly as good as the marvellous sleep deprivation tactic, constant supervision, a set of bright lights. I didn't sleep for eight weeks, eight weeks, can your primitive minds imagine? And like a frog boiling to death completely unaware, the progression from bad to worse was gradual, of course. Professional. Start with the beatings, worked up to the whippings. Kept me in chains, stretched out. I reckon the mechanisms behind it were quite similar to being drawn and quartered, eventually. If I got that tiresome to deal with. But they were patient. So in comparison, you have this, an overly populated room filled with biased men more interested in making me_ suffer _than who I've informed about the base in Paris. Better yet, what's in there. Enough to make you all rich, rich enough for villas in Italy. That's the dream, isn't it? Reynold? Darrish? Although some, like Johnny, are all for family. Keeping your wife and your two precious daughters safe, all the while teaching your son the ropes of this family business. All those sick days, having the others take care of your shifts while you take your extra time, teaching him how to wield knives,_ going _by the nicks on your hands. And you, you, Caine Grogersky, letting him spend so long away because you knew you needed new blood for your legacy, this grand operation that you're leaving behind, because you know you'll die before this is seen through. The weariness, the balding, you've known about the cancer for months. It was only a matter of time. But you wanted to make an impact before you left, and you wanted your employees to be taken care of. You just didn't mind that you were pushing for the next great war, a world war that would obliterate the highest in power and leave room for the weapon distributors to fill their place. Your employees, the people you take care of, your family. And that's been your biggest mistake about this entire day. You got yourself involved in extracting information from me, trying to figure out how you could intercept the message about the base. Where did I hide the data? Who am I giving it to? Because somewhere along the line, while I pushed your drugs and your weapons for you, I was brought into your little family, and that made this betrayal far too personal. It was your mistake, the fatal mistake that could bring this entire operation down, and you take it for your own fault. You think if you can intercept my message, your legacy lives. Your name lives on, and somehow you live forever. But you're wrong. You're a dead man walking, Caine, and you've lost."_

 

_No one says a word. She couldn't even hear the rustle of clothing, or the shifting of shoes. Sherlock was breathing heavily, reminding her of those months he was in the hospital, speaking through the healing hole in his stomach and the blood deprivation. His voice has gone raspy, and her heart sinks when she considers internal bleeding. Most likely. She imagines herself sitting by his bedside, a heart monitor reminding her of every second spent with him. She imagines Sherlock getting out alive. She imagines him living forever._

 

* * *

Angel's closing up the bar when Sherlock barges in, wide-eyed and frantic. She tries to greet him when he finally spots her, but before she can get a word in, he grabs her and drags her to the back hall, going for the exit.

 

“What the hell-”

 

The door to the front flies open, snapping hard against the wall behind it. She tries to turn around to see what the matter is, when Sherlock slaps his hand over her mouth, and pushes them both into the mens' washroom. He opens one stall and gets her to stand on the toilet lid, while he sits at the back of it and keeps his head down.

 

“What-”

 

His eyes widen again, warning her to shut up just as the door opens. Conversation drifts inside, all the way from the main room.

 

“No, it was definitely Colt, I swear to god it was. Angel comes down the alley, and it's him talking to her, telling her how he got cut. Remember that bandage he came in with a few weeks back? He had to fight left-handed while his arm got better.”

 

She freezes, every nerve in her body going cold. She knew. She knew exactly what was wrong. She looks at Sherlock, who can't keep eye contact for too long. He looks so utterly defeated. Footsteps click around in the bathroom, and the person looking for them stops dead in front of the stall, but she doesn't care. She can't look away from Sherlock.

 

“I can't believe it. Colt would never be able to fight off Rankin,” someone's saying.

 

Their seeker leaves, the door letting a single sentence escape before shutting.

 

“Trust me, that was Colt, and he fucking killed the bastard.”

 

Her hand leaps up, sitting over her mouth. Hysterical, she points at Sherlock, then covers her mouth again. They wait together, listening intently for noise as they're searched for throughout the bar. She breathes heavily against her palm, trying to lower the sound of her breath by stifling her airways. Finally, she can't help herself and whispers quickly.

 

“That night – when your arm was hurt – how did they know it was-”

 

“Security footage. I didn't-” Sherlock shakes his head, uttering a short curse before going on, “I had no idea Rankin was so important. Bloody cousin of Grogersky, I'm an idiot. Of all the things to overlook-”

 

“Stop, stop!” she insists, worried half by his self-deprecation, half by the idea of someone moving outside that might hear him. She puts her hand over her nose and mouth again, and Sherlock simply holds his breath.

 

No one enters. Muffled, but still recognizable as Grogersky's, booms, “To the motel, check their room.”

 

There's a clamour, as if a group of men larger than she expects is huffing and groaning, and then there's no noise.

 

“Sherlock?” she asks quietly. He exhales, slow and long, and meets her gaze proper. “What do we do?”

 

“They weren't ever supposed to suspect you. I was supposed to get you out in time, I messed up. I messed up,” he croaks the end of it, sounding feeble. The touch of uncertainty makes her legs wobble. She holds herself up with both hands planted on the stall walls.

 

“We need to go,” she tells him, “We need to get out.”

 

“And go where?” he looks to her for the answer.

 

She takes a shaky breath. The idea of London rushes towards her unexpectedly, strong enough that it might as well have knocked the wind out of her. She wants to take him home, to something he knows. But she knew he wouldn't let her. She knew he wanted this, the work, the ticking bomb that was _six months_ hanging over his head. He wanted the death sentence, the punishment for all he'd done wrong. If he finished this, he'd redeem himself, and the weight of his sins would be lifted. There'd be no chance of carrying him home otherwise, for his guilt and sense of _wrongness_ would sink any ship she put him on, and tear at the wings of any plane she bothered with. She had to let him finish the mission.

 

But she'd be damned to leave him to his doom, even if she has to dig him out of his own grave with her bare hands.

 

“We've gone wrong before. We'll just have to start again,” she tells him, “We'll go where we're untraceable.”

 

 

* * *

 

_“Cancer of the skin, liver, and brain,” Caine finally speaks, “I was diagnosed back in 2005, all that smoking I do, docs said. Just the skin back then, mind. No one ever thought it'd come back so hard. It came back 2013, and the doctors gave me three months top. I'm living on luck, Sherly. I'm dying. I wake up every morning wondering if I'm gonna die on the job, and fall asleep every night asking myself if I'm gonna die in my sleep. See, that's the difference between you and me. I don't know when I'm going to die. But you? Well. I'm sure you know just as well as I do, that you're going to die right now.”_

 

_Her heart pounds, hard enough that it physically hurts in her chest. The single beat she feels harder than the rest sounds so loud that it rings in the air for a moment, the same way a gunshot would._

 

_There's a thump on the other side of the door. A single body falling over._

 

_“We're done here,” Caine says, “Get rid of the body, won't you?”_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wanna know a funny joke? Look at the chapter notes. Look at when this fic was posted. Oof. Oooooof. This baby of mine is dwindling down to its final stretch.
> 
> I'd say I promise I won't wait until 2017 to post the final chapter, but at this point it almost seems fitting. A chapter for every year. This one's the longest yet, and hopefully worth the wait. Remember to read the additional tags.

* * *

 

 

_Something is dragged across the floor. A man grunts, the sound of someone exerting themselves to lift something up. Footsteps. No words. Everyone leaves._

 

_She lies at the bottom of the broom cupboard as the silence stretches on. Then, when a door closes, she gasps and sobs._

 

 

* * *

 

 

“We can't get into Italy.”

 

Sherlock's on the phone, bickering with someone on the other end. Probably his brother, the Mr. Holmes she'd begged to let her come all this way. She's sitting at the rest stop's lunch area, perched on top of the picnic table in a way her mother would've scolded her over.

 

“We don't have any ID, vehicle's stolen.”

 

She looks away from Sherlock, instead looking over the picturesque scenery of Slovenia. Setting sun threw a variety of colours over the sky and the landscape, orange and pink and purple shading underneath clouds she'd never seen before. The winding road has led them into a valley of hills, perching them at the top of one. A little bit away from her table, the ground dropped to a steep incline, far too steep to go down it without intention of dying. She can see the metaphor, and thinks of how poets could make it work. But she can't. It's too clunky, but she can see the parallels. She doesn't have to go down the cliff... She knows that only death awaits.

 

“How's he going to cross ov- ... yes, I suppose that'll do. Make it fast,” Sherlock's hesitance has her looking over her shoulder, hair falling like a curtain over. He makes eye contact with her, and continues, “They're tracking us. Get us somewhere. Now.”

 

She turns back, just as Sherlock hangs up and walks over to her. She thinks he's about to tell her that they have to keep moving, but he puts himself beside her, huffing an exhausted huff. There’s a nice moment of just… watching the sun and sitting side by side with him. After a pause, he opens his mouth, and instinctively she stops his indignant rant in its tracks.

 

“Just look at it for a bit with me, don't start with the protesting.”

 

“I wasn't going to protest.”

 

She giggles, picking at a loose thread on her trousers, “Yes you were.”

 

Sherlock sighs again, although when she glances at his face, he's endeared by her bluntness. His mouth chances a small smile, one that she returns feebly. He lifts his arm and wraps it around her shoulders. She leans into his embrace, putting her head on his shoulder as she hugs him in return.

 

They watch the day turn to night.

 

* * *

 

 

_He's dead._

 

_He's dead he's dead._

 

_He's dead he's dead he's dead._

 

_He's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead no no no no no no no he's no he can't no he's dead no please no no no no he's dead he's dead no he can't he CAN'T!_

 

 

* * *

 

 

She dozes through going across the border, and wakes up when the car pulls to a stop in front of an inconspicuous building. Well, it would be a rather pointless safe house if it stuck out. In London, maybe, but everything else up and down the street was identical to the building's high archways and shuttered framed windows. A light was on in one of the wider windows on the second floor, and she could hear loud shouting from inside. The driver, whose name escapes her, opens the door and peeks in, his hand reaching out to shake her awake in case she wasn't.

 

“Time to get out, c'mon now,” he says. He sounds like he's straining to be nice. Makes sense. He and Sherlock pitched a long argument when he first picked them up. About her, of course. When was it not.

 

She falls into step with Sherlock as they make their way into the building, going up the stairs as directed by the older man taking up the rear. He directs them to the only door on the third landing, and tells her to open it. When she does, she's surprised by what she sees.

 

Four men are gathered around a widescreen television, shouting at the football match. One even wears a jersey. They don't take notice of the strange woman in the room at all, not until the old man and Sherlock have both entered and close the door behind them. Then the men go absolutely silent, and stare.

 

“What the hell is this, Drew?” one of them says, gesturing at her and Sherlock. The man sitting next to him on the couch slaps his side with the back of his hand, hissing at him in words she doesn't understand.

 

“They're trying to get to Paris, apparently,” the old man, Drew, casts a glance between her and Sherlock, then grunts at them, “Might as well make yourselves comfortable.”

 

She glances to Sherlock, who shrugs, non-committal, before being led into another room by Drew. She hesitates, before sitting down on the very edge of the sofa. The man that didn't speak English sits closest. He gives a sigh, but offers a comforting smile for her.

 

“Adrian,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand.

 

Her mind short-circuits, but she manages to shake his hand and feebly say, “Hi. So, um… who’s playing?”

 

Despite the noise the boys make as they watch the game, she dozes off, soothed by the fact that, for once, they're safe.

 

* * *

 

 

_Something creaks, and her hand slides against her mouth, stifling any sound. She doesn't even dare to inhale – god forbid she takes up any more space, she's not allowed to have the space she used to – she's half a person now – Sherlock, oh Sherlock..._

 

_There's footsteps._

 

_"It was a mistake, shooting Holmes.”_

 

_“C'mon now-”_

 

_"Stupid mistake, why the fuck- God damn it, Caine!”_

 

_"Derek-”_

 

_"He don't know anything about the bitch - she's still out there, you know! And she's got the fucking drive-”_

 

_"Listen-  hey, listen! You've got to pull it together, okay? You've got to. You can't say things like that about Caine-”_

 

_"I don't care-”_

 

 _"Caine_ doesn't _make mistakes.”_

 

_It isn't said like a fact. It's said like a desperate prayer. Something to believe in._

           

* * *

 

 

Her neck has a kink in it, and her pillow is practically a lumpy rock. When someone shakes her shoulder, she blearily opens her eyes, her face wrinkling at her discomfort. When she blinks away the sleep, she's surprised to see the Italian that gave her a smile, still smiling, although looking rather sheepish. Her cheeks go hot when she realizes she had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

 

“I'm so sorry-” she starts, but her elbow's tugged along.

 

“Mycroft found us a contact that can get us into Paris, c'mon.” Sherlock tells her. She glances between the two, then offers another apology to the rather kind stranger that let her sleep on him. He smiles again, and leans in to kiss her cheek.

 

“Sei molto gentile. Stai al sicuro,” The man looks behind her to Sherlock, his timidness fading into a somber expression. “Ti prego.”

 

She smiles gently, unsure how to reply, but feeling pity for his fearful look, and finally gives him a small nod. She heads out the door with Sherlock, who starts talking as soon as they're out of the flat.

 

“We have to get out of here now, head to Aosta-”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Andrew might be able to get to us, but I don't plan on waiting for him to be done here before getting into France-”

 

“Hang on-”

 

“Don't stop, we have to go.”

 

Sherlock pushes the front door so hard that it swings around and hits the wall. He rushes towards the car, not waiting for her before he slams his own door behind him. She hastily gets in, beyond confused – for goodness' sake, she just woke up. The inside of her mouth feels like something out of hell's garden is growing in there, she needs to shower, brush her teeth, maybe some coffee-

 

It hits her when she notices Sherlock's hands shaking so hard that he can't get the key into position.

 

“What's wrong?” she asks. Her chest feels like ice is dripping into it.

 

He shakes his head, “I have to get you out of here-”

“Were they a part of the syndicate? Was this all a trap?”

 

"No, but yes.”

 

The engine finally revs, and Sherlock turns to look behind them as he pulls the car out of its spot. It finally clicks in her mind.

 

“You're leaving those men in a _trap_?!”

 

Something shrill rings through the air – like a children's toy that's gotten too old, like the wrong radio signal – and she doesn't realize it's someone screaming until the building beside them disappears in an explosion of fire. Sherlock slams his foot down and they speed out of there.

 

Her cheek, still tender from its imprint of the Italian's shoulder, feels cold.

 

* * *

 

 

_It's been quiet for what feels like hours. But she's been counting it – it's only been twelve minutes. Complete silence for twelve minutes, and in those twelve minutes, she's made up her mind._

 

_She came back for him. She can't go back without him._

 

_She sits up._

 

* * *

 

 

They don't risk going near any motel. Not for their safety – but it's clear no one is safe around them. The only people they could trust were each other. They sit in the car, night passed hours ago, but they're both sitting up and looking out the front window. She's been crying the whole way, a hideous sobbing that couldn't be stifled by any attempt at restraint. Sherlock, despite looking frustrated by the sound, let her. Even after they had parked, his hands remained on the steering wheel, knuckles bone white.

 

“Drew had a source.” he finally mentions, quietly, “In Aosta-”

 

“You didn't warn them.”

 

Sherlock's breath catches. She only hears it because it had been the loudest thing after her body exhausted itself.

 

“Whoever was watching the place would've known, they would've set it off sooner. I couldn't have gotten-”

 

“-to your next clue?” she snarls out, vicious like the wolf girls she's read about in her poems (which in itself was interesting, as she'd always assumed they were extinct in this land of snakes and rats).

 

“-you out of there.” he finishes at the same time as she does, and his face falls once he registers her accusing words. Defeat. _Betrayal_.

 

His tail tucks between his legs and he turns away.

 

Her mouth blows out a soft _“Oh”_ , but he's already building up a wall.

 

“We need to figure out how to get back into the syndicate. Everyone will know my face, the sponsors and the cartels. It'll have to be stealthy – we need a way-”

 

“Do they know my face?”

 

Sherlock, immediately catching on, shakes his head, “No.”

 

“Well then, why not-”

 

“No. I mean, _no._ ” he stresses, his head jerking as if he was going to look at her, but decided against it.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“It is not an option.”

 

“Why not?”

 

His head twists this way and that, getting too aggravated for something as mundane and human as shaking his head, “There's too much a risk-”

 

“I'm invisible to them-”

 

“And there's a possibility that you are more of a target than I am. Because of what you are to me- oh.”

 

He stops, his face stricken like he's going to be sick. His cheeks become as pale as his knuckles. His fingers twist around the wheel, wringing it like a wet rag. She can see the words well up in his throat and she hisses out, “Don't say it, Sherlock, don't.”

 

“I should get Mycroft-” he says despite her protests.

 

His hands freeze like her touch is ice, but his muscles go lax. He stays still enough, physically and mentally, to let her fingers curl around his wrist.

 

“I'm not leaving you.”

 

Wolves like them mate for life, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

_She didn't realize her wrists were bloody from the plastic until she was shifting her bound hands under her bum and legs. She lets out an involuntary hiss of pain, her mouth straining open in a cry that she crushes by closing her throat. Slowly, painfully, she unties her ankles, wondering why she'd been tied up, if Sherlock was the only one who'd known she'd been in the closet. He had to have been the one - to keep her down, to keep her quiet? To keep her safe?_

 

_Twisted, selfish, shameful-_

 

_She hates how much she hates him. Because he's ~~dead~~ \- he's fucking FINE and she's going to get them out of this._

 

_She's able to slip her hands out of the plastic, but it takes careful maneuvering and long pauses to adjust to the burning sensation of her wrists being used. Her hands are shaking like she's had too much caffeine by the time she's out, but she's adjusted to the fresh pain and her fingers trap in the USB stick hanging from her neck._

 

_Daring not to speak, she thinks the same words over and over in her head like she's shouting, as if her promise will give him one more second between living and dying._

 

I'm not bringing this home without you.

 

_She throws open the door - and the door across the room opens._

 

* * *

 

 

She'd been Angel for what feels so long that she doesn't know what to do when they sit down in a booth by the bar and someone else takes their order. Her gut twists as she recognizes the look on the waitress' face. She doesn't trust them, especially not the forced smile Sherlock puts on. She can't help but wince as his gentle mask slips off like sap when the woman walks away, matched by a pretentious eyeroll. For all his mastery with disguise, the energy of something _else_ wafted too strongly from him. It had worked for him when he pretended to be Colt. Colt was _meant_ to be something else, an aura of something wrenched out of a nightmare. But Sherlock wasn't so much surreal as much as fictitious. He was the character you fell in love with in the space between covers, something you left behind - something that only had so much of what made someone tangible.

 

That's what had her swooning over him all those years ago. He was unattainable.

 

Now, sitting across from him, idly picking at the label of her beer bottle, she realizes that it isn't just him people were looking at uneasily. He's not so unattainable anymore, but that wasn't because he had manifested into something remotely normal. Her heart was beating the same rhythm as his, and she was entirely unreal.

 

“Have you noticed?” he asks.

 

“I don't see things like you do,” she replies, defensive, suddenly desperate to cling to the girl she'd left behind in London. She misses her jumpers.

 

Sherlock shifts, propping his elbow to touch his chin. He glances purposely across the room, to one of the only other occupied booths in the room. There's a woman, unabashed in the way she stood out in the room, but dismissive of anyone that dared approach her. As if she were untouchable.

 

She's flaunting for them. If it wasn't clear by the obvious performance, the message was delivered directly by the curve of her mouth when both of them were watching her.

 

“Should we say hello?”

 

“We can say much more than that,” he tells her, and they cross the room. She brings her drink with her. He does not. It's something unimportant to her, but the stranger seems thrilled by her drink. She leans closer to her, even though both her and Sherlock sit across. A startled cry escapes her when she realizes the beer had nothing to do with it.

 

“Alba!”

 

The woman Mrs. Crawford had saved from a loveless marriage and an even darker fate involving the sex ring MI6 had dismantled, Alba smiles and reaches across the table to touch her hand.

 

“You look like you need a friend.”

 

Friend was one word for it. Rock was a better one.

 

She positively beams and takes Alba's hand in both of hers.

 

By the time Alba leaves to catch an interference in the next city over, they have a way into France, and a route laid out into Paris. Sherlock looks dubious, but she knows the stakes that were at hand for Alba, the sweet taste of revenge that was so close. Alba owed her, and the debt was gladly repaid. Something new was in the air. Surely if you could taste sunshine it would taste like this. She and Sherlock linger, and she orders a second beer. He doesn't drink, but as she relaxes, the tension that had made a home in between his shoulders steps out. Alba looks content, and they both stand to hug before she goes.

 

“I'll see you into France.” Alba says into her ear, but loud enough for Sherlock to hear. When she pulls away, she knocks his shoulder with the back of her hand, “You. There is soft music, celebrate and dance with this woman.”

 

She sputters out a laugh, thrilled by Sherlock's speechless response, but simultaneously flustered beyond belief. Alba giggles at their reactions, and points at Sherlock again before heading out the door. Not meeting Sherlock's eye, she tries for another laugh, and goes to sit - just as he stands up quickly. It results in the two of them knocking each other off course, and immediately reaching out to steady the other.

 

“Sherlock, what are you-”

 

“I thought-”

 

His eyes widen, and his mouth bobs hopelessly as she slowly realizes what he was attempting to do.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Oh.” He repeats. She can practically hear him scolding himself in his head. With a gulp that isn't as quiet as she would like it to be, her hands slowly loosen on his arms from where she grabbed him. Even as she stutters, uncertain, her hands slide down to intertwine with his, slowly pulling them towards the empty space between tables, something that was meant to be a dance floor, “I mean, if you want - I'm sorry I -”

 

“It doesn't matter - she only - I thought that's what you'd like-”

 

“No no, I do - I mean - alright.”

 

They don't dare go so far into the middle, instead hesitantly lingering so close to the edge that they're still between tables. They stand, hopeless and holding hands, until she lets go and reaches up to put her hands on his shoulders. His hands touch her hips by the tips of his fingers, as if she's as fragile as the bottle she'd been finishing. The song is in English, but it doesn't surprise her. Most of the songs had been so far, all familiar songs that her father had been a fan of. She doesn't know this one - she listens to the lyrics for about two seconds before the irony hits her. A song about _almost_ , and _nearly_ , and _please_. Her head hastily jerks, trying to find another gaze to stare longingly into, but it’s just them.

 

… Well. The floor is _fascinating_.

 

“Sorry.” Sherlock's voice tries to cut through all the noise in her head, but she drowns it out with _Oh, look at that crack, I wondered how that happened, I hope that stain isn't vomit because I think I stepped in it -_ and replies to him on autopilot with a hum.

 

“I'm not – good at this, I'm sorry-” He tries again, and her gaze draws closer to her own body as she feels his hands move to her back, gently pulling her closer. She doesn't realize she's shifting in response, not until she feels hair strands in between her fingers and she realizes she's wrapped her arms around the back of his neck.

 

“It's okay-” she tells him, looking up to meet his gaze, and her breath audibly catches.

 

She would've never found this Sherlock in London.

 

The drawbridge was down. She had crossed the threshold to this man and he was at a loss. How long ago had this hole been carved? Was the world really so horrible that he'd left any and all hope at the side of the road? Had he really been told so many times that he was teetering so close to the end that there was no point? What self-proclaimed prophet had fed him lies and trickery and twisted that beautiful, _beautiful_ mind?

 

She'd once wrote it down in her diary, when she was thirty-one and he was the detective that she gave coffee to.  _I can see myself falling in love with him._ Her throat constricts and she scolds her past self. _You can't give that man another second of your words._

 

He was not that man.

 

She was not that woman.

 

“Oh, Sherlock.” she sighs, and he lets go. It was the wrong thing to say, but she knows that anything at all would've been the wrong thing to say. He isn't ready to see what she sees. He isn't ready to share the burden; he doesn't want to stain her skin with the blood on his hands. She remembers the explosion they had left behind. Her skin is already oozing with blood that doesn't belong to her. He's not the only murderer lingering in the past.

 

“I'll find us a room.” he says shortly, but the walls don't go up.

 

He can't do that to her anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

_She's halfway across the room by the time the door opens. The man steps in, and she promptly throws a punch to his face. It was only the advantage of surprise that had the man stumbling back, stepping wrong on the stairwell, and tumbling down to the next landing. He gives a pitiful groan, and attempts to get up, but finally slumps in defeat, knocked out._

 

_After a long pause, she squeaks, “Holy shit.”_

 

_She scampers down the stairs, going on her tiptoes to be more quiet. It takes a bit of awkward maneuvering to step around the unconscious man. She doesn't trust to go anywhere she hasn't already been in this place - and her gut is telling her they took Sherlock out of the building. She'd have to go looking for a vehicle, unless..._

 

_She moves, ready to rush the nearest exit, when a hand clamps over her mouth._

_“You're a slippery one, aren't you, Angel.”_

 

_The voice hissing in her ear couldn't have been anyone else but Caine._

 

* * *

 

 

She frowns, tapping at the meter, as if the red line would jerk and soar up. But ever stubborn, it remains the same, and she submits to the inevitable. They didn't have enough hot water. She steps into the room through the open door, and sees Sherlock's relentless pacing. His mind had caught up with him and gone on without him, pushing his veins past their limits. It was a miserable experience, and a haunting appearance. She doesn't confront him, because that would lead to admitting she knows how to handle it, because she knows how it feels to go mad.

 

“There's only enough for one shower,” she tells him. He grunts in acknowledgement, not looking up. It's positively primitive, and she can't look at him. She glances down, hesitating, but closes the door behind her. Shutting herself in. Even across the room she's suddenly aware of how close they are in this world. She could be countries away. She could be streets away. She's in the same room. She's breathing the same air.

 

“I don't know if we'll get to shower in France, maybe we...” She stops, and she feels like someone else is speaking for her, “If you want-”

 

Sherlock stops moving, and looks up at her. It's a long moment, one that aches in her chest and in her head and somewhere so deep in her core that she isn't sure how long they waste time just staring at each other.

 

“You should just take it,” he tears away from the eye contact, and her heart breaks the same way it would if she had just hit him. She had hit him, once, what felt like ages ago. It was her hospital, and he'd taken drugs. She was furious with him, _how dare you,_ but he'd been so out of focus and she was the last thing on his mind. How much had changed?

 

She already knows the answer. She's still the last thing on his mind, and the first, and the only thing.  The clarity in his eyes this time is so sharp. He knows exactly what he's doing to her.

 

He's a gun waiting to be fired, only he's kept the safety on. In her pain, she's surprised that she wants to laugh. But it was ironic.

 

Sherlock being anything other than dangerous.

 

She goes to the bathroom, closes the door behind her, but doesn't lock it. She begins to strip. With every piece of clothing she takes off, the heavier she feels. She's lost weight, and somehow every step she takes now resonates. She makes a pair of flats sound like a pair of high heels. She's not just carrying the world, but has become the world herself. So many stories she can't tell in her static nature, slopes and valleys no one knows exist mapped on her surface. She traces over her breasts, watching her reflection touch stretch marks and the one small dot of a birthmark marring the left. Her hand flutters against her collarbone, slides up her neck the same way a man once choked her. She's had earthquakes and hurricanes on this body of hers. She has magma inside her, ready to steal life. No wonder no one wants to touch her.

 

She turns on the water, and waits for it to heat up. She bundles her hair up high, and Angel smiles sweetly, sickeningly, in the mirror. With a frown and a shake of her head, she tries again, tightening it into a bun, and Ms. Crawford tilts her head curiously, pitying the stranger that stands before her. She tosses her hair, throwing the elastic down on the counter. Her hair falls down over her shoulders, and she doesn't know who it is.

 

Turning away from the reflection that watches her with such dark eyes, she steps into the tub, draws the curtain, and raises her face to the sputtering warm water. Her toes curl in the puddle at her feet, and she pushes her hair back. Closing her eyes is the greatest luxury she's had in a long time. She takes a deep breath in, because that's what she has to do. He's a dead man walking and she's been breathing for two.

 

The bathroom door creaks open. Her hands slide from the top of her head, down to her neck, clinging as if her own neck would save her from falling for him. She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't look, but she can hear the shift of clothing, the soft rustle of fabric crashing to the ground. The curtain peels open, and he steps in behind her.

 

His breathing is a bit hard, and the shower's small enough that even standing they're pressing close. She can feel his breath, hot. He's been fighting all the way to this moment, she understands that. He's been trying to be brave enough for those three little words, and she's known it for too long now. She remembers kissing him when he was Mr. Crawford, when they weren't supposed to be in love. She understands, this is hard for him. It's near impossible for her.

 

The improbability of the situation is defying the laws of the universe, but she doesn't care. She wants to scream that she's indifferent, scream so it echoes and echoes in the small tiled bathroom. But his hands touch her hips, his lips brush against her wet shoulder, and her knees nearly buckle.

 

Slowly, uncertainly, his mouth moves up her neck, until his cheek presses her hair.

 

“Tell me to stop.”

 

“No,” she turns her head, eyes still closed. Despite having rejected the idea out loud, she knows she still has a chance to step back, forget this ever happened. She still has a chance as long as she doesn't see the look in his eyes. The one that tells her, _promises_ her, that she's his hope.

 

The air from his mouth stutters, like his lungs skipped a beat the same way a heart does. She raises her hand, crossing over her own body to touch his shoulder, gently turning her body until she was standing face to face with him.

 

She opens her eyes. Lets the moment sink in. After holding her breath, she inhales and pulls herself up to meet his kiss.

 

He's bruising and shy and desperate, his mouth opening for her insistent tongue immediately. Her hands move to his chest, not touching, but curling against. She's kissed him before, but not like this. Not when they're not pretending to be other people and there's no fabric to curl her fingers into. He presses her against the wall and she responds, utterly pliant.

 

They let the water run cold.

 

* * *

 

 

_She inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring like an animal's. She wiggles, trying to escape, but Caine snags her by her wrist, and she yelps in pain. He immediately hushes her, the hand on her mouth moving to her hair as if he were about to pet it. But he makes a fist, knotting her hair, and she remembers Sherlock's words._

 

Months? Months? Try me.

 

 _She realizes she's just as brave as he is._ Was _, a tiny voice speaks to her in a hollow tone._

 

_With a snarl, she twists, not able to overpower Caine in strength, but speed. Her hair rips from her skull, but she doesn't – can't pay mind to it. With her free hand, she slaps him in a clawed sort of way, starting with her palm and ending with Caine's blood under her fingernails. He lets go of her, and she hits him with an open hand again. She kicks at his knee._

 

_Shocked and overwhelmed, the older man falls down. Caine blinks up at her, beyond confusion. She leans over him. Her hair falls over his shoulder and blocks her face from the light over her._

 

_"I won't take no for an answer. Tell me where Sherlock is.”_

 

_Caine coughs out a laugh. Furious, she stomps down on his ribs. He screams, writhing, and hisses out._

 

_"He's already six feet underwater. You're too late.”_

 

_“I'm not-!”_

 

_Her shoulder feels like it's burst into flames, and Caine whips out a knife._

 

* * *

 

 

They're barely in Courmayeur before they're clawing for each other again. Alba had gotten them into an expensive room, but the pockets of their trousers strewn across the room are empty. They don't have to pretend here – just Sherlock and... Sherlock and...

 

His roots are setting in, his curls growing back to their usual length. His eyes are nothing but _blue and green and gray and-_

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Yes, yes-”

 

“Say my name.”

 

His eyes, positively eating her alive with a look, glance up to meet her gaze, then double back when he catches something that's not arousal but pure _terror._ His hands slide over her exposed skin, down her sides, feeling like ice without the chill.

 

Her eyes burn where his gaze touches them.

 

“Molly. Your name is Molly.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _Caine swipes out with the blade, nearly catching Molly's calf if not for the fact she's already stumbling back. Her hand presses to her shoulder, the fabric of her shirt already dripping in blood. She's been_ shot.

 

 _Another bang ricochets through the air, but the bullet misses. At least, she assumes so. All the pain is blurring together. The world is melting from her shoulders, coating her in its tragedy and grief and she can barely_ breathe, _Sherlock's dead, he's dead -_

 

_She lets out a frustrated scream, cut off by the sob that rips apart her throat in its rush to get out. She hits a wall with her bad shoulder, and her vision panics into a grey spectrum. Caine is on his feet, having avoid the bullet as well, snarling._

 

 _"You were one of us, our Angel. My Angel. You were our_ sister. _” he hisses._

 

_Her head spins away from the moment, racing through the months she'd spent leading to this. Alba, the woman she saved. Drew, the man that helped them escape. A kind man with a tender smile, who stayed by her side and let her rest on his shoulder._

 

_“You don't get to decide who I am,” she bites, and kicks out, driving her foot into his stomach._

 

_There's a third bullet._

 

* * *

 

 

“I don't think we're fitting in.”

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow to her, and promptly lifts the champagne flute to his lips. Logically, she was wrong. There was nothing to their appearance that set them apart from the rest of the attendees of the charity event. Her hair's been curled – almost like Ms. Crawford, if not for the fact she lets it down in waves, over a backless gown from Alba's closet. It's not a striped jumper or a tight ponytail, but it's more her than any of those characters ever were. She can't help but notice the effect on Sherlock. He's consistently touching her throughout the night, brushing her hair back over her ear when a tendril slips over her shoulder, his hand moving for her hip. She'd be lying if she said it bothered her.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

Molly doesn't speak, instead cranes her neck to empathize the distance the others in the casino had put in between them. “Do we smell?”

 

“Don't be obtuse,” he says with an eyeroll. He passes his drink to her, “Just a mo',”

 

“Hang on, where're you going?”

 

The possibilities surge through her mind. To rob from a safe, seduce a mark-

 

“I'm going to the _loo_ ,” he stage-whispers so no one will hear. He turns away from her, takes two steps, then promptly stops. Molly frowns, seeing how his hands twitched into fists at his side. She opens her mouth to say something, when she sees what he does.

 

Caine Grogersky is being escorted to a table, followed by his cronies.

 

Molly opens her mouth to whisper to Sherlock, when he suddenly grabs her hand and pulls her onto the dance floor. She thinks it's a waltz – this is a waltz right – and she's only ever waltzed in school. Those dance partners had been awkward and easily spooked. But Sherlock's stepped out of the Victorian era, and he seems to have been bred just for this sport. He's confident, confident enough that he seems to know that, not only will he never stumble, but she'll follow him.

 

Maybe he does know what he means to her.

 

It feels a bit like ice skating, twirling around the floor with Sherlock. If not for the spying and the deer-like twitchiness the pair of them have, it could be a dream. Dreams tended to not fill in the details, and in hindsight, Molly's memory doesn't remember much aside from Sherlock holding her, his focus magnifying her, and Grogersky's voice carrying the words, “Honfleur, the loading docks.”

 

* * *

 

 

_"That looks bad,”_

 

_Molly, huffing in exertion, watches Mr. Holmes' assistant, Anthea (or Florence, or Jane, it changed often) step over Caine, who had collapsed to his knees in pain, looking as pristine as the last time Molly saw her. She has a gun in one hand, and is pulling out fabric from an inside pocket of her suit jacket, all the while frowning down at the blood pooling around her heels._

 

 _"You shot him. You shot_ me _.” Molly accuses._

 

_“No, there was a guard down the hall. He's been dealt with,” Anthea vaguely waves the gun. She tucks it away, though Molly is worried to ask where, and presses the cloth into Molly's shoulder, coddling like a mother, “There we go, don't you worry, it's alright.”_

 

_Molly's head spins, and she blinks hard to keep herself focused. Her mission - get the data to Mr. Holmes - save Sherlock - it all blurs together until she can barely find a reason to keep standing._

 

_“We have to-”_

 

_“Get the registry, yes, I know. Did Sherlock manage to access the mainframe?”_

 

_Molly's hand is searching blindly around her neck before she realizes what she's looking for, and snags the chain. She pulls the USB stick out from underneath her shirt. Anthea freezes once her eyes land on it._

 

_Finally, carefully, she asks, “How did you get it?”_

 

_“Sherlock. He kept me hidden, so they wouldn't find me. He hid it with me. We have to-”_

 

_Finish the mission. Save Sherlock. Which one, which -_

 

_“He's at the docks,” she croaks, miserably, “Already underwater, Caine said.”_

 

_Anthea opens her mouth - to protest, to scold, who knows - but finally gives a sigh. She takes the cloth and ties it tight, before taking the gun and putting it into Molly's hand._

 

_“I'll stay here with Grogersky, get a team in for him. If you go, go now.”_

 

_The weapon makes her feel the same way slime would. It makes her squirm just to touch it. But she imagines a bullet digging into the skulls of the men who hurt Sherlock and her grip fastens around the weapon like she was made for it. She breaks into a sprint._

 

* * *

 

 

Alba points at the last blueprint, to the fifth floor and last floor of the warehouse, “There's the control room there. Grogersky will have the security system set up inside.”

 

“Biometric firewall,” Sherlock murmurs. The whole reason why the mission had taken so long was this very defense system. They needed the location of the company's registrar, and it was guarded by the local security algorithm, “It'll have to be disabled.”

 

Molly nods, “Me and Alba will take care of that. You'll have to be ready at the computer to take the list of names.”

 

“Easier said than done,” Sherlock raises an eyebrow as he tilts his head, “Grogersky is brawn, not brains. He's going to keep a quantity of personnel rather than a specialized task force.”

 

“That could mean locally hired men,” Alba cuts in, “Most won't know the purpose of the facility. I doubt they'll put their lives on the line for the syndicate.”

 

It's not a win, but it's close. The MI6 woman was wrong. Drew was wrong. They were all wrong.

 

The odds were in their favour, and Sherlock was going to live through this one.

 

* * *

 

 

_She shoots point blank at the driver, but misses. It startles him, making him hurry away from the truck. She barely breaks her stride, throwing open the car door and getting into the driver's seat. The docks, the docks – the words, not the image, keep flashing in her mind. Down the road, right by the river to the first left, follow the tire tracks to the docks, to the docks, the docks…_

 

* * *

 

 

The warehouse looms over as the three approach. Sherlock leads, one hand on his weapon, the other holding Molly's. Alba takes up the rear, constantly checking over her shoulder with paranoid twitches. Molly finally reaches back to touch her hand, jolting the woman but assuring her with a small smile. There’s a moment, then Alba smiles back.

 

“Final lap,” she murmurs to Molly, “You excited to be going home soon?”

 

Molly hums, glancing forward again as she teases back, “Knock on wood. But… yeah, it’s not a bad thought. Home.”

 

She squeezes Sherlock’s hand – not to pressure him, but acknowledge him. She wants him to know that’s what she thinks of. London. The morgue. Him. He’s a part of that hazy future. She doesn’t expect him to do anything with that information, but he surprises her when he glances back. He squeezes her hand in return. His mouth is moving, pressed lips curving into something of a smile… but his face falls.

 

“Duck.”

 

Immediately, the trio are down on their knees, crouched behind a row of crates. Lights flash between the boxes, headlights scanning the gravel road.

 

“That’s Grogersky. I see him, there,” Alba points out, her head slightly raised for a moment before hiding again.

 

Sherlock uses a very filthy word that doesn’t come often from him. It startles Molly with her Catholic school sensibilities, enough so that she blurts out, “ _Really_ , Sherlock?”

 

But she understands the sentiment. The house was supposed to be empty, as it were. Caine Grogersky's presence alone would be an increase in security, more risk of the entire syndicate’s database being able to be cleaned out. The concept of the syndicate moving home base was a very real and frightening possibility. If they couldn’t initiate their plan that night, it was possible that the six months would have to be started all over again.

 

She can practically hear the cogs working in Sherlock’s head.

 

“Change of plans,” he explains. Of course. He points towards the makeshift parking lot, “I’ll take care of the firewall. You two need to get yourselves over there and knock out their getaway cars. Once you’re finished up over there-”

 

He double checks his weapon, glancing over the crates, “Get Caine’s car. If Mycroft’s team is coming down on this place, then he’ll be getting Grogersky tonight too. They’re all going. Got it?”

 

“Got it,” Molly repeats, nodding a small little nod, and lets Alba lead the way over – at least, until she’s stopped by a hand on her wrist. Confused, she turns back – and is absolutely knocked out by Sherlock throwing himself at her. Her noise of surprise is muffled by his mouth, but after a moment – when Sherlock doesn’t let go – she settles. Her hand falls over his cheek, fingers splayed. She feels so thin, compared to his hungry kiss. The longing. The desperation.  In hindsight, it’s unbelievable that she doesn’t recognize a goodbye when she tastes one.

 

“Everyone in that building is going down,” he murmurs, and opens his eyes. It’s quiet, but it’s a promise.

 

She nods, swallowing a lump in her throat, “We’ll get them. We will.”

 

His muscles sag like he’s relieved – _oh she’s a fool, she’s a fool_ – and he lets go of her.

 

She leaves to follow Alba.

 

* * *

 

 

_She leaves the door hanging behind her when she exits the car. Her hair flies forward as her feet hit the ground. Unbidden, a scream rips from her throat, “DON’T! DON’T TOUCH HIM!”_

 

* * *

 

 

In hindsight. That’s what it comes down to. That moment, ducking under the fifth car to rip at cords. Hidden by the massive machinery.

 

Alba’s voice.

 

* * *

 

 

_They hesitate. Sherlock’s head lolls on his neck, held up by either man holding an arm._

_She raises her gun. Unflinching._

_Molly Hooper can’t go back. She would shoot them. Unafraid. Unashamed. She would kill them._

_"Put him down.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you hear that?”

 

“Hear what?”

 

A single gunshot rings out.

 

* * *

 

 

_The two men look at each other, glancing between her and the body in their arms._

_“I think-” one of them starts, and she aims the gun at him, drawing back the safety. She pulls the trigger._

_A single gunshot rings out._

 

* * *

 

 

Molly stares, horrified, at the face that falls beside hers. Unseeing eyes, Alba stares at her, her hair getting wetter as the blood pool grows.

 

They’ve been found.

 

* * *

 

 

_The man that spoke falls, clutching his shoulder. Sherlock slips out of his grip-_

 

* * *

 

 

She skitters from underneath the car, going the other way. Frantically, she looks around, knowing she can’t go back the way she came. She’s cornered, she’s trapped, she looks up and-

 

* * *

 

 

_Sherlock slips out of his grip, his body falling onto the wet wood, his head lolling over the edge of the dock, his weight pulling him down, falling into the river-_

 

* * *

 

 

She looks up and the warehouse looms over her. No escape. Only forward.

 

Molly pulls herself to her feet and runs into the first doorway.

 

She hears them follow her in.

 

* * *

 

 

_Molly doesn’t think. She doesn’t even care about the man crouching to the other’s side, putting pressure. She drops the gun, hears it go off, bullet flying in another direction. She shucks her jacket._

_There’s no USB any more. It’s in the hands of their superiors. They won. They won. They won. There’s only Sherlock now._

_She dives into the water after him._


End file.
